


A Journey to Remember

by Jap1c_Fanf1c



Category: Anastasia (1997), Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Abandonment, Anastasia AU, Mentions of Prostitution, Mild Xenophobia, Multi, mild homophobia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-22
Updated: 2017-08-06
Packaged: 2018-09-26 08:09:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9875513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jap1c_Fanf1c/pseuds/Jap1c_Fanf1c
Summary: On the windCross the seaHear this song and rememberSoon you’ll be home with meOnce upon a December-----His royal highness, Prince Yuri Plisetsky, disappeared after the raid of the Catherine Palace.  His Grandfather, Grand Duke Nikolai Skowroński, offers a reward for his safe return sevens years later.  Surely the boy won't come back from the dead.  Right...?





	1. Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *waves nervously* Hi everyone!! :D
> 
> Some disclaimers:  
> 1) This is my very first fanfiction so please be gentle ><  
> 2) I'm not a writer by any means. I don't mind constructive criticism but keep in mind that I'm only writing this for fun ^^'  
> 3) All in all this is going to be a relatively harmless story but some mature themes will be mentioned so be prepared for that. I will tag appropriately as the story goes along.  
> 4) I'm going to do my best to post when I can so please be patient with me ^^'''
> 
> Now on with the story~ :3
> 
> \---------------------------------
> 
> Beta: The Local Dumpster Cryptid
> 
>  
> 
> **TW: Abandonment**

I donned my thick wool coat and turned to face the room, faintly lit only by the dying embers in the fireplace. All was quiet, save for the music that played softly into the silence. Its delicate tune guided me across the room to a round mahogany table, adorned with a silk red cloth detailed in gold embroidery and an emerald border. Atop it lay pictures of the royal family in intricate frames, an unlit golden candelabra, and, most importantly, the source of the music. The round ornate box seemed to glow in the limited light as it continued its song. As I trod towards the table, careful not to disturb the oriental rugs at my feet, the music slowed to a stop and the mechanism closed. Without hesitation I placed the gift into a satin pouch and departed for the white carriage outside.

# ****

Amidst my recollection of the events that have transpired,I realized that it’s easy to forget that there was a time, not very long ago, where we lived in an enchanted world — a time of elegant palaces and grand parties. The year was nineteen hundred and sixteen and my daughter, Yuliya, was the Tsarina of Imperial Russia. 

# ****

The carriage slowed as we reached the front entrance of the Catherine Palace. Lights were strung, shining unabashedly, from the elaborately framed windows to the main stairway as I eagerly stepped out the carriage and ascended the familiar stone staircase. Upon my entrance into the palace guests bowed in reverence to my presence; I in turn acknowledged the gesture while servants collected my coat. Moments later I gazed upon the golden ballroom filled with noblemen and women dancing in time to the orchestra. Overlooking the crowd was a large portrait of the royal family. Beneath it, a set of marble stairs led down to the ballroom floor. The second landing contained four small ornate chairs embellished with the royal seal; the top landing had three much more impressive ones ― and the one on the right was mine.

I, former Emperor Consort Nikolai Skowroński, promptly took my seat while waving to my dear family as they danced.

As the grand chandeliers that displayed the delicate gold number 300 on the glass implied, we were celebrating the tricentennial anniversary of the Plisetsky family rule. Yuliya’s husband, current Emperor Consort Frederick Venäläinen, was twirling each of their three daughters around in an informal waltz. Natalya, the oldest, was the first to realize my presence and immediately curtsied. Sophia and Xenia followed in turn once they tracked their sister’s line of sight. After this brief moment of formality, the girls clamored for their father to twirl them again. I could only grin fondly, for they were my beautiful granddaughters. I felt a bit mournful that they were maturing so fast. Suddenly, a flash of royal blue caught my eye as I saw Yuliya herself dancing with her youngest child. 

Certainly the celebration that night was dazzling, but no star burned brighter than that of our beloved Yuri, the youngest of the royal children and my only grandson. 

My lovely Yuratchka was the first son to be born in the royal lineage for over two generations. He was gifted with an elegant visage most like his mother’s, but that was not where the family resemblance stopped. With his soft golden hair, fair complexion, and forest green eyes resembling his grandmama, our handsome boy could only continue to grow more exquisite each day. 

# ****

Some court members believed that Yuri’s upbringing in the royal family as the only male heir would surely leave him prone to become insensitive and spoiled. Through his eight years of life, however, he had found rather interesting hobbies to counteract that charge. Most notably, and quite peculiarly, he took ballet lessons with his sisters and cousin. He claimed that it made him feel “in control” and would prepare him for what he called “the knife shoes.” Although I never deduced what exactly he meant by that, I knew that when Yuri danced his strength truly shone. I couldn’t be prouder. In addition to his dedication at the ballet studio, he spent much time in the kitchen. There, he had a boy he called “Beka” teach him how to make piroshki for Alexandra and me. 

My heart ached at the memory. 

Oh my gentle wife Alexandra! She left us too early. Imperial Russia mourned the passing of their ruling monarch, for she was strong and governed her country well. Yuri, on the other hand, grieved not for a tsarina but for his beloved grandmama. The loss of her calming presence, profound love, and melodious voice created a small void within our youngest grandchild. I could only hope my parting gift could help soothe him, for I was due to return to Paris within the fortnight. I did not want to depart from my little Yuratchka without offering a semblance of his grandparents’ love. 

# ****

I directed my attention to the dancing duo and soon my company was noticed as well. Yuri’s eyes widened in recognition and delivered a brief bow to his amused mother, who then allowed the child to escape her warm embrace. She gave her own acknowledgement to my presence while the child climbed the carpeted stairs two by two until he, with a leap as mighty as a tiger, grasped onto my person with a glistening smile.

“Grandpapa!” 

Swiftly I lept up from the chair, careful to keep little Yuratchka’s present safe from any unintentional harm. This proved to be ill-planned, though. My back would not allow me the pleasure to fully enjoy my grandson’s affection. Noticing the subtle sounds of pops as well as my poorly hidden distress, Yuri immediately released himself and helped me back into the royal chair, apologizing profusely.

“I’m sorry grandpapa,” Yuri fussed to make certain I fully seated in the chair. “I forget that your back has not been very well lately.” I heard him quietly berate himself. Yuri’s cheeks produced a slight flush and my eyes crinkled in delight at the adorable pout displayed. How could I have ever allowed myself to conceive the thought of parting from my little soldier while his tender heart was still mending? 

Gently, I cradled Yuri’s petite hands into my own. His supple grip felt delicate yet firm against my aging palms. 

“My little Yuratchka. Watching you grow stronger each passing day is an honor you should not ask pardon for,” I asserted while patting his hands fondly. It seemed to take a moment for Yuri to process before he gave a sweet smile.

Slowly I leaned closer and whispered, “I have a gift for you.” 

Letting go of Yuri’s hands, I reached behind me and lifted the satin pouch. With great care I took the ornate music box from its confines and lifted it for Yuri’s perusal. Curiosity arose through him as he flickered his eyes about the delicate detailing of gold swirls and prominent stones around the object. 

“Um….Is it a jewelry box?” he inquired with a perplexed face while rotating the box counterclockwise.

I could not retain the laughter that bellowed forth. 

“Yura, what need would you have for a jewelry box?” I chuckled, which reminded me to present the second component of the gift: a golden chained necklace attached to a detailed pendant of similar design to the box.

As I took the music box from his hands, I looked to Yuri while holding both the box and pendant in view. “Here, observe.”

Using the hidden gear on the back of the pendant, I wound the mechanism to life. As its melody played, a miniature figurine of Yuliya and Frederick dancing together rose and spun within the music box. Yuri softly gasped, “It plays grandmama’s lullaby.” 

“You can play this,” I whispered, “and pretend that it’s Grandmama singing you to sleep.” 

Little Yuratchka’s eyes quickly became glossy as the tune continued. Soon I found him softly murmuring along with the tune. 

_On the wind_  
_Cross the sea_  
_Hear this song and remember_  
_Soon you’ll be home with me_  
_Once upon a December_

Yuri closed his eyes at the final note and sniffled. Keen to capture his attention before his emotions took over, I pressed the necklace to his palm. He shifted his inquiring gaze from the item to me as I pointed to the pendant. 

“Read what it says.” I instructed.

Without delay, Yuri pinched the pendant between his fingers and squinted to read the tiny font on the gear. “Vmeste….v Parizhe¹"

His eyes widened as he understood the message: his grandpapa would let him stay in Paris someday!

“Really?! Oh grandpapa!!”

The boy leaped towards me again and this time I was ready to receive his affection.

# ****

However, we would never meet in Paris. For _he_ came after the promise was made.

# ****

A woman shrieking from the back of the ballroom drew the attention of every nobleman and woman at the ball. A figure was dressed in a dark purple garment. Its uneven hemming swept upon the floor like a broom as the one donning it struggled to stand. Clearly, the screaming woman had been the one to shove him. Appearing as if lost, the now recognisable man swept his unfocused eyes across the ballroom and landed his hazy gaze upon the royal family. With a wry grin growing upon his visage, he slowly and clumsily made his way towards the staircase in a direct path towards Yuliya.

# ****

His name was Georgi Popovich. With an angular jaw, dark brown locks, and modest build, I could not describe him as anything but ordinary in terms of physique. In regards to his name however (the name he went by in those days, anyway) one could infer that he was a holy man.² This was the only reason I even allowed my daughters near him when he came into influence only a year prior. Yuliya and her younger sister Tatiana came to know of his teachings through rumors that he was indeed a son from the Holy Father, and they listened to his preachings with apt attention. From mystically healing loved ones to offering advice on the state of affairs, he soon became Tsarina Yuliya’s confidant. 

Initially I was greatly concerned that he came into such a high position without a noble bloodline, but what worried me most was that he started to gain the favor of Mila Babicheva ― Tatiana’s daughter and Yuri’s older cousin by three years. With long, voluminous crimson hair from her father and deep sapphire eyes from her mother, Mila was a splendor rarely witnessed throughout a lifetime. Despite not being in the line of succession, my darling Milotchka had been close to her royal cousins since they took ballet lessons together. Even Yuri, who had shown little care for those outside immediate family, treated her as a sister while they comfortably bickered about nonsense. Nonetheless, no matter how independent she claimed to be since her mother’s recent passing, we feared that Popovich had planned to court her while she was vulnerable in order to ensure royal blood ties.

Be that as it may though, even this great fear was a trivial matter in comparison to what the traitor would ultimately do to us.

# ****

“Tsarinaaaa Yuliyaaa! What a looovely evening for a party, don’t you agree?” Popovich hiccuped. He unsteadily bowed and lost his balance, nearly falling face first onto the marbled floor. Once he regained his upward stance, the fool cast his owlish glance around the room and noticed how all was now quiet.

“Huuuhhh? Where’s the muuuusi-k? There shOULD be mUCH dancing in celebration tonight your hiiiiiiighness! OH! Shall I start the fest-ivi-tay myself in your honor, yourrrrr GRace?”

Before Yuliya could answer though, Popovich pinched the hem of his garment and spun around in an absurd fashion. His hips swayed side to side while an obnoxious humming sound came from his inebriated conscience to provide accompaniment. This display elicited gasps from the esteemed guests. Who was he to informally address the tsarina with such a presentation? 

This exhibit prompted me to stand, and I bade Yuri to stand behind me. My little Yuratchka had no business looking upon this buffoon acting as undesirable entertainment. My attempt proved insufficient, however, for Yuri only clung to my side and stared at the scandalous affair. 

I instantly glanced over to Yuliya. To her subjects it had seemed as though she faced the travesty with an air of indifference and a calm demeanour. Yet to her family, it was clear that there was a growing displeasure and irritation marring her beautiful countenance. Emperor Consort Frederick quickly ordered Natalya, Sophia, and Xenia to go and rest in their chairs quietly while he swiftly stood near his wife in support. I could only assume that feeling her husband’s presence broke through her silent ire and prompted her to express her disapproval. She had enough of the poor performance! 

The tsarina grounded herself and spoke with impervious regality.

“Our dear friend Popovich, why do you arrive to this affair in such a state? Do you not think essential of how you present your person to all of Imperial Russia on this grand occasion?”

I can clearly recall the murmurs that quietly ascended from the noble guests. Some dared to inquire the relations this man had to the royal family and wondered aloud if they were chaste. It was no secret that Popovich had an unquenchable desire for the pleasures of the flesh. This fact alone had the people of Russia suspect hidden relations between Yuliya and this man. 

This couldn’t be further from the truth. 

She was a faithful spouse and a loving mother to her children, but slander is a powerful force that can persuade even the most prudent of men that dirt is the new gold. 

As if waking from a stupor, the dancing monkey slowly came to a halt at her words. His confusion gradually turned into indignation as his flushed cheeks became crimson. Whether it was her public rebuke or her commanding tone of voice that provoked him, Popovich was not discreet enough to respond kindly.

“My....My state of p-person?” He garbled while clutching a hand to his chest. 

“WHY would, your MAH-jesty, have neeeed to Question yourrr con-fi-dant when he has done NOTHING but undertake the Gruueeeling task of helping YOUR SICK royal family out??” He slurred with exaggerated gestures towards us on the stairs. Abruptly his wild actions stopped as his attention focused towards the top of the stairs. I noticed immediately that his eyes held Yuri’s gaze.

“EEEEEEEEspecially that odd boy of yourrrrrs. What riGHT MINd would ALLOW a boy to practissimo baaaAAAAAaaallet?!?” He snickered.

I heard Yuri’s breath hitch beside me as his fingers slightly trembled where he clutched my royal uniform. I tried to silently hide him behind me once more, but he held steady. With a glance I found him glaring back at the drunkard. 

“The fuUTure TSAR fellow brethren! May _HE_ govern this country well with accompanying pirouettes~” He ended airily with a poor attempt of the move. 

A heavy silence hung in the air, for no one dared to speak in fear of misdirected punishment.

I observed Yuliya gradually raise her chin with a non-committal, “Hmm…” 

# ****

It occurred to me that we had never seen Popovich attend this type of affair. Consultations were conducted in closed quarters with only the royal family as witness testimony. No alcohol. No drugs. Just sobriety to allow the matter at hand be discussed and specific prayers given to provide peace of mind. 

In such an environment the man was admittedly eloquent enough to carefully word his advice on political and familial matters. What eluded our knowledge was that Popovich imbibed excessively. His false sobriety ultimately deluded us into thinking that the ball would have been a chance to prove to the propaganda groups that his relations with our family were honest. 

Truthfully, I expected some sort of aberration from the clown since he was peasant born. Still, I would have never envisioned Popovich to dare act in such a bold and ill-mannered way, and to essentially do so before the entirety of Russia!

Based on the manner with which Yuliya handled the situation, she never expected this as well.

# ****

“Leave.”

The fierce command left her taut lips and reverberated within the grand room. I felt Yuri jump as some other guests did, while others hid their surprised murmurs behind their handkerchiefs. They knew with certainty that the tsarina had enough.

Popovich halted his drunken musings to reply intelligently, “Whaaat?? But the fun has only begun!”

“The royal Plisetsky family has no more need of your attendance tonight, Popovich. You have done enough. You are dismissed.”

How regal the tsarina can appear even in her most upset state! Yuliya turned toward her husband and gestured that they would proceed to their seats. Turning her back to Popovich, though, proved to be a severe mistake. 

“Tell me Yuliya,” Popovich inquired soberly, “how long do you think your reign shall be?”

The crowd gasped in unison while the tsarina herself harshly pivoted to glare at the faux priest. 

“I apologize,” he feigned. “I meant to specify the _Plisetsky_ family rule.”

I clung onto Yuri. Sophia and Xenia instantly took to Natalya’s sides as she cooed in an attempt to stop their shaking. Frederick blanched and began to motion for the guards, but Yuliya spoke before the intervention.

“Why Popovich, are you so intoxicated that you forget what this event is?” She mocked, not quite facing the man. 

“It is the celebration of the tricentennial ruling of the Plisetsky family. With this substantial record and the proper family bloodline finally coming to order-” she briefly paused to peek towards Yuri before proceeding, “-our family’s ruling shall last for another 100 years at minimum. What makes you address me _without title_ and question our ruling thusly?”

A warped grin sprouted upon his sickly face. 

“Does her majesty really blind herself to what _her public_ speaks about the Plisetsky _ruling?_ ” He waved his right arm toward the family as if in announcement. 

“They. Want. You. Out!”

The guests erupted with audible huffs and gossip. Yuri tried to push away from me to run to his mother, but I only held him more tightly. He was too young to witness this blasphemy.

“In fact,” Popovich continued, “by the holy powers vested in me, there be a curse placed upon you and your family from all of Russia! Within the fortnight, the Plisetsky rule will be no more.” 

Spinning around, he raised his arms high towards the center chandelier.

“Everyone will DIE!!”

Suddenly the chandelier wobbled and fell as if on command. A loud crash followed by screams was heard all around. Glass shattered to a million pieces, and the metal work bent from the force of the fall. Electrical wiring stuck out from the top, the visible sparks slowly fading. The ballroom floor itself looked as though it was partially damaged as well. 

On instinct I forced Yuri behind me while his sisters hastened towards us for safety. Frederick tried to pull Yuliya toward the staircase as well, but it proved difficult. She was rooted in place with shock. The guests scattered about in a frenzy with both fear and trauma apparent in their eyes. 

When I regained my composure I swept my gaze around the room to find the man responsible for this chaos.

However, it seemed that Popovich disappeared. 

# **************************************************

I know not what truly made the chandelier drop that dreadful night. But not long after the ball, news of the events transpired besieged the royal family with accusations and preached of Popovich cursing the royal family with his holy powers. Only a few days passed, but the allegations against us became steadily more violent as the propaganda groups became active. 

Both Yuliya and Frederick thought it best to sneak the family out of the Catherine Palace before things became unruly, but this idea was conceived too late. Only a week after the ball, a raging mob broke the chains of the front gate and headed towards the palace. 

# ****

Panic spurted forth as we ran towards the back of the palace.

All the extended family that visited us for the ball had left the palace the day prior to attend early morning mass near their respective homes. Although we were sad to part and the palace became quiet, we were thankful that none of the guests stayed. Only the soldiers and servants were around to witness this tragedy that had fallen upon the place. It was chaotic.

Dressed in meager clothing and battling the early morning fatigue, we saw the smoke erupting outside through our windows. The raging fires from the courtyard colored the falling snow as if they were embers ready to engulf the next victim. With little indoor lighting to guide us, a crash from one of the many statues outside amplified the urgency of our situation.

“PAPA!!” Xenia cried. The three girls held each other’s hands while rushing towards their parents. 

“Hurry children!” Frederick directed. He and Yuliya dashed ahead of the group to ensure that the path to the secret car wasn’t blocked.

In the back of the group were Yuri and I. Although slower than the rest, we were steadily following the others until Yuri suddenly exclaimed, “My music box!”

He sharply turned and ran back from where we came.

“Yuri!! COME BACK!” I bellowed as loud as I could. 

“What happened with Yuri?!” Yuliya shouted from the front, distress evident. 

“Go with Frederick and the children Yuliya!” I called back in answer. “I’ll grab Yuri and find another way out. I know where you’ll be. There is no time for hesitation, so GO!” I started my way to where I know Yuri will be. Hearing no reply, I presumed that they went along ahead.

After rushing through the winding halls, I opened the third large door to the left. Right before me was Yuri draped over his bed as if he tried jumping over it to reach his nightstand as quickly as possible. With an impromptu swim in the sheets, Yuri finally was able to grab his music box. 

“Yuri, please hurry!” I yelled when I heard the distinct sound of the palace doors being broken. As I grabbed his shoulders to direct him out, another pair of hands grabbed my coat. 

“Come this way, out the servants’ quarters!”

“Beka?!” Yuri blurted. Without another word, the mysterious boy led us to a hidden hole in the wall. 

# ****

Instead of questioning why there was a secret door in Yuri’s room at that moment, I remember turning to quickly examine the unknown boy. He had partially slanted brown eyes, lightly tanned skin, and unruly raven hair. He looked to be slightly older than Yuri since he was a bit taller, and from the few words he spoke I knew he had a thick accent as well. I did not notice we had a foreigner this young working in the palace. 

Yuri called him “Beka” though, so he must have been the lad teaching Yuratchka how to make piroshki. With that in mind, I did my best to memorize Beka’s features to hopefully reward him later for helping Yuri and me.

# ****

The door of the hole looked to be part of the square wall panels around the room. The design made the entrance only a bit taller than Yuri’s bed frame and wide enough for a person to walk through. 

Pushing Yuri towards the secret passage, I heard a quiet thump on the floor but paid no mind to it. We needed to leave! 

Once inside the passage, Yuri turned back and ran to the entrance once more.

“Yuratchka!!” 

“My music box! I dropped my music box!” Yuri wailed and tried to wrestle past the servant boy. The foreigner proved to be a bit stronger, though.

“GO PRINCE YURI! They are already here!” he shouted while forcefully pushing Yuri towards me. He then immediately closed the door without entering the hidden corridor himself. 

Taking this chance, I grabbed Yuri’s shoulders and led him through the dark secret passage ― hopeful that it reached the servants quarters as the foreign boy had specified. Thankfully, it did. From there, Yuratchka and I made our way out of the palace undetected and carefully trudged on the frozen Neva river through St. Petersburg, hand-in-hand, in hopes that the mob won't spot us. 

“Your highness!!”

Yuri froze but I dragged him forward. I recognized that loathsome voice and was not about to entertain the fool while we were running for our lives! 

“Wait, grandpa!”

That…

That was _not_ a voice I was expecting. 

I turned around to see Mila in a bulky coat with her hair flying wildly about, meticulously jogging towards us with Popovich sliding not far behind. Milotchka...what was she doing here?!

“What are you doing here Baba³?! Didn’t you go home with Uncle Vanya yesterday?” Yuri spat his concerns ‘eloquently.’ 

Once she caught up, Mila slowed to a stop only a few feet from us and took a moment to lightly cough into her mittens. She addressed Yuri first.

“I did, but the guilt I mentioned to you just ate at me. I couldn’t just leave like this!” She flailed her hands over her head as if to emphasize her point.

“And then this… _THIS_ happened. OF ALL DAYS.” She almost shrieked while haphazardly waving her arms toward the palace’s direction. 

A key word caught my attention.

“Mila, what is this guilt you speak of?”

The girl finally met my eyes and opened her mouth to speak ― then immediately shut it. She started fiddling with her coat and twirled her hair around her mitten as if contemplating what to say. That she was biting her lower lip only emphasized her indecisiveness to speak. 

This was certainly not Mila’s typical behavior. This should have alarmed me, but there wasn’t time for this kind of dawdling.

“We will talk about this later, Milotchka. Come with me and Yuri; we need to get somewhere safe.” 

Turning to Popovich, who seemed to have finally caught up, I stressed: “Do not follow us, you traitor!” 

I offered my empty hand to Mila as she swiveled her gaze from Popovich to my open palm. She gulped. 

“Grandpa, the reason I came back was because I want you to pardon Popovich.”

My open hand flinched. I felt Yuri squeeze my other hand as I tried my best to remain calm for the situation.

“Mila Babicheva. I will not tolerate such a preposterous proposal. This man has only caused trouble for us. Take my hand. We need to leave.”

Mila’s cheeks bloomed a rosy hue and she huffed in annoyance. 

“Grandpa _please!_ His life's in danger for execution and he needs your pardon! Georgi — I mean Popovich — has done nothing the people claimed he has! He does not have any powers to bring on curses or whatever else they said. Like the chandelier from the ball! I — “

“He has done _nothing?!_ ” I immediately ceased her petition, thrusting my open palm into the air to address the situation.

“What do you call this Mila? Us running for our _lives_ , from our _home?_ Is this considered _NOTHING?_ ”

The poor girl stood in silence while my rage expelled into the winter morning.

“Whatever he did, magic or not, it caused a great uproar with people’s distrust of the Plisetsky rule. That ALONE is warrant for his execution. _Why_ do you defend him thusly?”

At that moment, a thought clicked into place. Unabashed horror flitted through me as I finally turned to Popovich.

“ _YOU!_ What lies have you told my granddaughter to gain her affection?!”

“Huh?!” Popovich paled.

“What?!” Mila screeched, “No grandpa, it’s not like that!”

I grabbed Mila’s mitten-covered hand, “We are leaving NOW.”

“NO! Not until Georgi’s pardoned!” Mila fussed and slipped her hand out of the mitten.

“Mila _please_ , we can talk later.” I faintly heard Yuri plead while holding out his own hand to Mila. However, my infuriated mind did not register my grandson's pleas.

“ _FINE._ If you care more for that imbecile than your own family then you can stay with him!”

I yanked Yuri back to our path down the river. He squirmed with little no’s and please’s as we carried on our escape. Mila’s voice rose in desperation.

“Grandpa wait, please!”

“We are no longer relatives Mila.” I declared, not turning back to look at her. “Stay with Popovich since he’s important to you. The Plisetsky family will no longer welcome you as kin. _Dasvidanya._ ”

Yuri was visibly devastated by the proclamation. His body became heavy and almost refused to move, but I did not care. We continued our path towards escape. 

# ****

I never should have said that to Mila. My little girl was only eleven years old at the time and stubborn as a bull. I knew that. I also knew that she didn’t know what was truly at stake by asking something so impertinent at the most inopportune time. Still, I was unable to control my temper. I am ashamed of my behavior, for a grandfather should only show love and guidance to his grandchildren. At that moment I did not. As a result, that was the last time I saw my beautiful granddaughter — desperate and heartbroken in the snow. 

I wish I had never left her behind.

# ****

About an hour earlier, when I chased after Yuri in the palace, I happened to run into one of my closest guards, Johan Giacometti. Apparently he also tried to stop the youth as he passed, but my agile grandson was able to evade him. I told Johan to gather some traveling papers for the three of us and to wait for us on a train headed to Paris. It was the safest route I could think of at the time. 

Therefore, when the train started to leave as soon as Yuri and I got to the station, we ran as fast as we could through the thick morning crowd.

Luckily, Johan was on the caboose of the train and helped lift me onto it. However, the train started to accelerate, and my Yuratchka had a hard time keeping up with it.

“Grandpapa!!” 

“Yuri!! Here, take my hand! Hold onto it!” 

I held out my hand and Yuri grabbed onto it. Johan grabbed my waist in turn so I wouldn’t fall out. The train kept speeding up.

“Please,” Yuri cried, “Don’t let go!”

At that moment it seemed as if time has slowed down. 

My back burned with overuse, my hands cramped with tired muscles, my mind reeled with a million thoughts, and slowly…

ever so slowly…

My hand slipped.

A loud yelp rang in my ears. My empty hand instantly felt heavy as I tried to follow that sound. Johan held me back. Soon a large crowd came forth to obstruct my view and separate us further. The train kept speeding away, whistling as if to make the final judgement.

_“Y U R I ! ! !”_

# ****

So many lives were destroyed that day. 

What has always been was now gone forever. And my Yuratchka, my beloved grandson…

 

I never saw him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) “Вместе....в Париже” (Vmeste….v Parizhe) [Together….in Paris]  
> (2) Popovich means son of the Pope  
> (3) “Баба” (Baba) translates to “woman” in Russian but I also wanted to pay homage to the Japanese translation for “hag” lmao
> 
> \-------
> 
> Here's my tumblr: [japic-fanfick](http://japic-fanfick.tumblr.com/)  
> Let's be friends! (\\(^_^)/)


	2. A Rumor in Saint Petersburg

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been sevens years since the royal family has fallen. Do the people still remember them?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! =D
> 
> Thank you for your kudos and support for the prologue! I'm happy that people enjoyed reading it ^^
> 
> Without further ado, here's the chapter =3 
> 
> \---------------------------------
> 
> Beta: The Local Dumpster Cryptid
> 
>  
> 
> **TW: Mild Xenophobia, Mild Homophobia, and Mentions of Prostitution**

Rows upon rows of industrial chimneys spit out their smoke high into the polluted air, causing a haze that allows very little light to filter through. While this often mirrored the citizens' current gloom, the breezy afternoon in St. Petersburg lends a sense of a reasonably tolerable environment. With this slight difference in weather, men and women eagerly don their coats to line up and punch out of their daily shifts in the factories ― finally able to go home after working long, grueling hours in sweatshop-like conditions. Shuffling through the bleak weather and snow covered streets, most of the work crowd head towards the local market to find food for dinner or little trinkets for their fancy. 

An elderly gentleman wearing a heavy auburn coat trudges alongside them. With tired dark eyes, he regards the crowd while smoothing back his remaining gray hair under a felt hat. He keeps his head low, remembering how a certain pair of boys claimed that his appearance can "have the pope apologize to him for no reason." He huffs at the thought and continues to scan. Eventually his eyes land on a group of workers gathering near a news post. With a grunt he strolls over to the slowly growing crowd, pausing briefly to buy an apple from a nearby seller. Leaning on the side of the post, the senior takes a few bites of the mushy fruit as he listens intently to the conversation at hand.

“That old Grand Duke is offering how much?” an older woman holding a newspaper visibly blanches.

“10 million rubles! For the tsarina’s son!” whispers the news boy eagerly.

“Prince Yuri? He’s dead though. All of them are!” spits a robust gentleman, waving his hand as if to drive away a stench.

“That's a handsome reward for finding a brat...” ponders a shaking, spindly woman.

“That’s right comrades! If the old Duke was able to escape with his old age, why not the boy? It’s easy money!” explains an excited young woman.

A portly lad beside her scoffs. "That's even if you can afford to get out of this place. The Duke's in Paris and exit visas aren't cheap."

“Aghh! You’re always spoiling the mood, Boris!” his companion jabs.

The ever-growing crowd continues to speculate the likelihood of the prince being out and about instead of six feet under. Some are steeped in drama; perhaps he fought off the mob with his bare hands, or he ran off to be a prince of another country! Others are simply ridiculous. Why would a prince join the Russian circus to train cats on unicycles? The old man sighs to himself. This isn’t the information he was hoping for. He turns to leave when another woman speaks.

“Y’know, that’s great and all, but-” she takes a moment to look around and whispers, “if he is alive, what does he look like? You can never trust royal pictures comrades, they become too dolled up! And it’s been seven years!”

The crowd instantly becomes animated with the people barking out known features: blond hair, green eyes, fair skin, and that he should be in his teens. The speculation resumes, this time regarding what he could look like presently: tall or short, skinny or fat, lanky or robust, and so forth. A fortune teller even joins in with one of her handmade figurine snow globes to show off what he might look like, though this ultimately leads to an argument of sex since the wooden figure is wearing a woman’s coat.

“Well, how do we know if the prince really isn’t a princess in disguise?” a voice rings out. “Lord knows that family only gave birth to girls. I bet that’s how _she’s_ hiding!”

The snooping elderly gentleman leans against the news post once more. Although the conversation has been derailed, he’s hopeful that he can learn more about the lost prince. His poor excuse of a memory is proving to be quite useless for their group’s future scam. The conversation grabs his attention yet again once he hears inquiries as to _who_ they think could be the prince. However, luck is not on his side when a Soviet officer approaches before any name could be given.

"Hey!" the officer shouts from atop horseback. "Stop making a ruckus in the street. Go home!" 

The now massive congregation grumbles, but immediately begins to disband in several different directions.

“Dammit…” the old man swears as he walks away as well. Once out of sight of the officer, he heaves a sigh into the cold air. “I almost got a name…” he pauses to close his eyes. After letting the disappointment seep out of his tired bones, he continues on his way.

“I need to check out the theater anyways.”

# ****

He leaves the small theater after an hour-long meeting. Gazing at the sky, he mumbles, "Unusually light out this time of day." He wraps his coat tighter as his thoughts turn dark. “I wonder what the Big One’s got cooking for us helpless folk.” He grimaces, secretly hoping that it wasn’t the case. Shaking his head, the man walks towards the market.

He climbs a set of stairs which leads to the entrance of an enclosed area. This portion of retail is dedicated to more...rare items. Some call it the “dark market” since it’s always indoors with limited lighting. In honesty though, this just confuses the public for its more sinister cousin, the black market. The merchandise here only deals with certain specialty clothings and supplies ― much tamer ware than that of the black market. While it is relatively safer to wander the dark market, the ordinary, saner folk keep wary and avoid it.

He is near its stalls when he hears a low whistle from behind.

“Yakov!”

The senior, Yakov, turns towards the voice.

A fairly tan young man with short raven hair gives a quick little wave and bounds up the steps. Adjusting his gray newsboy cap, the lad gives Yakov a firm pat on the arm and a slight push towards the dark market.

“Phichit!” Yakov hisses.

“Shh, make it look like you're shopping.” the boy whispers as he walks in a separate direction. The old man sighs. Why can't they ever just walk through the damn place like normal folks? Recalling the Soviet officer from earlier, he decides it's best to make sure they’re not followed after all.

Resigned, Yakov peruses the different vendors. One seller swears that the woman in one of his paintings is a Plisetsky. Another claims she has a pair of pajamas that belonged to Count Yusopov, and yet another claims to have the palace’s fine china. That’s what seems to be popular these days: owning items from the nobles of the palace. The bored man continues to heave around the different stalls until he sees Phichit arguing with a seller. This stall must be new. Yakov groans loudly and prepares himself for a headache as he walks over to the pair.

“This is a child’s coat lined with real fur from the palace, boy. Why would I sell it for anything less than 400 rubles?” snuffs the seller.

“I heard your calling price of 200 rubles,” Phichit rebounds, “and that’s why I want to buy it. What ridicule is this that I’d pay double the price?”

The seller gives the petite Asian man a once over and reasserts, “It’s 400 rubles and no less.”

Yes, this seller is definitely new to these parts. Otherwise, he’d know that Phichit is not one to be trifled with because of his vast underground network — a good chunk of whom are currently in the vicinity. If the seller keeps this up, it is unlikely that he'd be back tomorrow.

“Look here buddy,” Phichit exhales, “I’m gonna give you an out.” He manages to wrap an arm around the seller’s broader torso to face him towards the other vendors. The man stiffs and visibly grimaces at the unwanted touch.

“Do you see what’s happening around us? Right now. At this very moment?” the shorter man emphasizes with a sweep of his arm. The confused man furrows his brows and shakes his head.

“Happy customers with their purchases!” Phichit blurts while swirling his free hand in the air as a magician would. “No yelling, no swindling — just a happy trade of rubles for goods.” The young man laughs good naturedly as the seller frowns deeply.

“Take Grisha over there.” Phichit points to a tall, slender man with long wavy brown hair tied in a ponytail and wearing round glasses. “He used to be a doctor. Moved here from Germany with his wife, son, and adopted daughter. A nice family generally, if a little loud at times. Anywho, the man comes here every morning to prepare drugs for sale without fail. Considered a real hero for the medicine.

“And how about Masha?” Phichit swivels the seller towards a young freckled woman with thick black hair under a colorful bandana. “This beauty comes from a line of nomads. Usually turns up around twice a week when her caravan decides to stop by. Knows the art of swaying a man’s desire for fortune while her sister, Inna, sways them in other ways.” The young man giggles darkly. With an audible gasp he addresses another pair of people.

“Ahhh and there’s my favorite duo,” the young man points towards the middle of the market to a pair with straight light brown hair and remarkable hazel eyes, “Kostya and Klava! Fraternal twins if you couldn’t notice the semblance. Klava always know how to obtain the best items to sell while her brother, Kostya, uses his charm to attract the best clients. A pair of peddlers that would never ever think of trying to swindle their customers.

“Now, why are you trying to break this peace?” Phichit pouts as he lightly taps the seller's shoulder.

The vendor scoffs and pulls away from the young man. “I won’t stoop so low as to sell my wares to an obvious immigrant.” the merchant condescends.

A beat of tense silence passes.

Phichit raises his arms to cross his chest. His left brow arches as he calls out loud enough for others to hear, “Are you trying to tell me that you try to cheat your customers?”

The seller snorts. He raises his chin a bit and turns towards the other vendors, expecting them to defend his right to not sell. However, only the so-called “happy customers” turn to him. With their smooth faces morphing into ones with wrinkled displeasure, it is safe to say they don’t look “happy” anymore. Realization dawns on the merchant: the display earlier from the petite man was not a spontaneous action, but a warning.

Yakov slowly approaches the stall to address the seller, “Listen, you don’t want to agitate this man any longer. It’s more trouble than it’s worth. Just accept the 200 rubles and consider yourself lucky for the deal. Otherwise we’ll all have a headache, and your safety won’t be guaranteed.”

The dumbfounded man can do no more other than squeak out the final price. "That's 200 rubles please."

Grinning brightly, Phichit hands over the money and takes the little fur-lined coat.

“Pleasure doing business with you Dima! May our paths cross again someday~” he cheerfully calls while walking away with Yakov.

The vendor visibly shudders. When had he even told them his own name? He prays deeply to never see the boy again.

# ****

“Well wasn’t that something, Yakov?” Phichit chuckles while holding the drapes as they both pass through. They’ve traveled to a little room towards the back of the market. With only a torn drape as a door, the space is cluttered with miscellaneous items: unlabeled boxes, candles, rugs, tapestries, an easel with no painting — just to name a few. It’s a bit damper than in the main market area, but it has a staircase leading to the top floor of the establishment. 

Yakov sighs. “Why on earth do you even want that damn coat? We’re trying to save money, Phichit.”

Before he could launch into his oft-repeated lecture, he notices something about Phichit’s dark grey eyes that he didn’t detect earlier. They’re darkly rimmed with just a little wing at the outside edges to emphasize the upward curve of his eyes. Yakov resists the urge to groan once again. “Does Yuuri know you’re using his kohl again?” He deadpans.

At least Phichit has the decency to gape like a fish and flush at the observation. “Yuuri has plenty of kohl! It won’t kill him to be missing one...or two...”

Before any more questions are asked, he evades further conversation by climbing the wooden stairs in his two by two fashion; by now he was an expert to avoid the weaker steps that can, and have, led him to injury. He is a quarter of the way up when Yakov finally gives in to his urge to sigh and starts climbing the creaking stairs as well.

The stairs themselves are very old and unstable, but the partially concrete covered walls around the men hold strong. What used to be cream in color has faded into a more brownish hue, accenting the brick foundation peeking through the chips in the wall. On the first landing up there is an old grandfather clock with hands permanently positioned at 9:58, and a stack of old landscape paintings that whisper of a time where the sky was once clear. The second landing holds a retired harp that hasn’t sung in years. 

Out of breath upon reaching the last landing, Yakov barely catches Phichit entering the cluttered attic they “lovingly” call their office. The elder rolls his eyes before entering the room as well.

The small room feels fresh since the door to the balcony is wide open. The breeze wafting through rustles the cloth covering the antique furniture and loose papers laid on a small table. Books, cabinets, busts, forgotten portraits, bowls of fake fruit, candelabras, fine china, instruments — all of these which have collected dust over the years have been claimed by the boys as their own. Phichit skips his way towards the outside loft to view the bustling citizens below. Another young man, with ebony hair and a fair complexion, is also in the room, shivering in his thin, poor excuse of a jacket.

“Close the door when you come back inside, Phichit-kun. The room is aired out enough. We might not choke to death, but we could _freeze_ to death in this weather!” the man chides with involuntary shudders. Resuming his interrupted task, the shivering man turns his kohl-lined eyes to the contents of the room, hoping to collect items that could prove useful for the trio’s impending trip. It takes him a few moments to even notice Yakov's presence.

“Oh, hi Yakov! Any news about the theater?” the thoroughly chilled man inquires while wiping his clear oval glasses with his old thin scarf. Yakov grunts as he notes that the young man’s long, silky locks are not tied up in a bun as usual. In fact, the wind keeps whipping the hip length hair into the young man’s face as he tries to find a basket in the clutter. 

“I’ll never understand why you keep your hair this long Yuuri. It’s so much easier to just chop it off for cash.” Yakov comments as he sits in one of the chairs around the table. Yuuri offers a soft smile in response just as Phichit rushes back inside, hand dramatically held over his heart.

“Oh Yakov! How can you ask of our Yuuri to practically give up his livelihood! Long hair means long dong so he’s gotta advertise somehow~!” Phichit snickers. Yuuri flushes as he swipes at his friend. “Shut it Phichit!” The shorter man laughs while the taller sits on a stool near the table and mumbles, “At least close the damn door like I told you.”

Yakov observes the playful exchange silently with his arms crossed. 

With a last chuckle, Phichit finally closes the door as Yuuri sets out their dinner for the night. Judging by a loud groan from Phichit and a noncommittal huff from Yakov, it appears that today’s menu choice is more meager than usual.

“Awwww c’mon Yuuri,” Phichit whines, “Just bread and cheese tonight?”

“Don’t forget the sauerkraut. _We need to avoid any health issues, comrades._ ” Yuuri horribly attempts a brawny Russian voice to lighten the mood.

“What about the pelmeni¹ you made last night? I was soooooo looking forward to eating those.” Phichit practically drools at the thought.

“You know those are for the trip Phichit-kun. Not many things can be preserved, so we have to conserve when we can.” He proceeds to hand each person a serving of bread topped with cheese and a little bowl of sauerkraut.

Phichit wrinkles his nose at his portion and decides to try another approach.

“But Yuuri, wasn’t it _just recently_ your 24th birthday? Shouldn’t we celebrate with some _better_ food?” He gives a puppy-dog face for full effect. Yuuri's resulting blank face indicates that he is having none of his friend's antics. “My birthday was two weeks ago in November, Phichit-kun. Now eat.” Yuuri takes a bite of the sauerkraut and almost chokes at the taste, but quickly composes himself with a rearrangement of his glasses.

“Well at least we can eat better as soon as we get to Paris.” Yakov grunts while taking a bite of bread.

“Speaking of which,” Phichit interjects (while subtly placing his bowl under his chair), “did we get the theater?” The elder gentleman nods. “We have it for four hours in the early morning tomorrow. It seems as though the theater has over 50 boys auditioning for us.”

“Wonderful!” Phichit cheers.

“So many...” Yuuri furrows his brows in concern.

“Ahh lighten up Mama Yuu!” The young man leans forward to give his friend a firm pat on the shoulder.

“One of them will be lucky enough to play the part of the lost prince. We’ll teach him what to say, doll him up enough for royalty, and take him to Paris for his dear ol’ Grandpapa.” Phichit feigns sentiment with a sigh. “Just think about it,” he continues, “that 10 million ruble reward! Oh, life will be heaven! We won’t need to work anymore. No more forging paperwork. No more stolen goods. No more being a mistress of the night. We’ll be rich and out of this hell-hole once and for all!” Phichit emphasizes with a raised fist. “Our names will be known to successfully play out the biggest con in history!” he roars with arms outstretched as if it was a war cry. The little black and red coat, his most recent purchase, falls to the ground as the result of his outburst.

“What on earth is that?” Yuuri adjusts his frames to better scrutinize the cloth when he picks it up, effectively ignoring his friend’s exaggerated antics. The fabric holds weight and, upon feeling the inside, Yuuri almost purrs at the softness.

“Oh! It’s my gift to you, Yuuri! Isn’t it nice?” Phichit stands and takes the coat from Yuuri.

“Now you can feel nice and warm on your night shifts. As well as have _some_ correlation to your pseudonym, the ‘Russian Silk,’ even if it’s not silk per say.” he coos while wrapping the taller man in the fluffy coat.

Yuuri nuzzles his cold nose into the fabric and sighs in relief. “So warm…”

Yakov shakes his head fondly at the duo’s antics. Ever since he took residence with these two foreigners during the revolution, he never ceases to be amazed at their camaraderie. It’s amazing to see how one always seems to know what the other is thinking, wanting, or needing ― even before the other knows of it. He recalls knowing many caring comrades within his lifetime, but nothing compares to the bond these two share. They’re nearly inseparable; quite close to be comparable to brothers. Perhaps even more if Yakov is willing to think further than what is comfortable. Although he himself hasn’t seen anything significantly romantic between the two, he wouldn’t be surprised if they are “those types.” 

It is difficult to tell because he only knows of Yuuri’s preference for both women and men, at least in regards to the man’s profession. Phichit, though, is more of an enigma. He rarely ever shows any interest in such things as romance or lust, even at the ripe age of 20. Yakov often finds himself wondering if the boy might be a late bloomer of sorts or if something else is at play. This generally leads the senior to think back to a time before he became a dance instructor for those in the noble ranks. At that age he was chasing all the pretty girls he could. At least, until a marriage was arranged in hopes to further his career. Yakov admits that the contract was very beneficial as it _did_ result in him rising in his field, but it was a bitter and ugly union that he eventually grew weary of. 

Sometimes, when observing the young men’s shenanigans, Yakov reflects and wonders that if his marriage had even half of the camaraderie the two boys show daily, would it have been salvageable? Would there have been another option besides deserting his unpleasant wife during the chaos of the rising communist rule?

This thought of abandonment also leads to another rabbit hole for the worn man. He remembers, as clear as day, one of his young noble students he should have supported. The boy had a natural grace and elegance that made even him envious at some points. Despite being a brat at times, the boy was quick to learn and could have gone professional one day with his talents. However, it was discovered that he had an affinity considered more unforgiving than Yuuri’s and never came back to class because of it. At the time, Yakov thought it strange for a man to lust only for other men. He’s been taught that it is considered unnatural and is acutely aware that this behavior conflicts with the noble class' requirement of conceiving heirs. Yet, after spending years in company with Yuuri and Phichit, Yakov feels almost shameful for thinking that such men are not beneficial to society as a whole. These two boys might not have the most respectable jobs, but they know the value of hard work and are self aware of their unsavory positions in society ― often using them to their advantage. In turn, they tend to extend help to those in similar positions and eventually developed a sort of support system that the lowly in St. Petersburg thrive in.

Over time, Yakov made a promise that if he ever saw his former student again, he would apologise for not protecting him.

In regards to his currently embracing companions though, Yakov often wonders how they met since the smaller one claims to be from Thailand while the taller is from Japan. The old man has inquired about this many times over the years, but the best answer he has received to date is a wink from Phichit and a somber smile from Yuuri. Yakov has long since given up on getting any straight answer from the two. Nevertheless, he’s allowed himself an assumption that their personal bond is one that is forged from the flames of misfortune, since they are reluctant to speak of it.

After the long hug, Phichit seems content with Yuuri’s reaction to his new coat and finally goes back to his seat for his dinner ― but not without knocking over his hidden bowl with the chair first.

"Shit..." Phichit grumbles and looks for a cloth to clean the mess. Yuuri doesn't seem to mind the mishap though. Or rather, he seems to be distracted; a pained yelp is not his usual response to his cooking being snubbed.

Phichit turns to see Yuuri fanning his right hand in the air as he whines, “I jammed my finger on something...” Both Yakov and Phichit look mildly concerned until Yuuri draws out from a deep pocket some sort of round, ornate item.

Phichit looks on in awe. “Whoa...that looks more than 200 rubles…”

Yuuri handles the intricate trinket with care while lifting it towards the light. “Wow...isn’t this a lovely jewelry box?” His mahogany eyes sparkle along with the jewels adorning the piece. A smile radiates from the fascinated man as his fingers lightly trace the delicate detailing of gold swirls on the found treasure.

_BANG!_

Yakov's fists hit the table and break the pair’s trance. Yuuri clutches the box to his chest with a squeak as Phichit jumps on instinct.

“That,” Yakov points to the object, “belongs to the missing prince! I remember the boy bringing it with him to Lilia’s ballet class before I left the nobles!” The young men gasp at the new information.

Yuuri returns his gaze to the delicate piece in admiration. “What an extraordinary life to lead if the lost prince owned such a splendid object…”

Phichit pauses to process this unique circumstance. “You mean to say,” he practically vibrates, “we have the ultimate evidence to make our story more believable?”

Yakov gives a rare but hearty laugh in answer. “YES! Consider us to be rich and out of this godforsaken country!” Phichit howls in triumph and wraps himself around the elder in a spartan hug. Yuuri takes a moment to grin joyfully at his companions while keeping a firm hold of the important ornate box. The young man releases Yakov to open the balcony door once more in hopes to expel this newly obtained energy, but not before turning back to his comrades to assert,

“Now all we need is the boy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Pelmeni - Russian dumplings consisting of a filling wrapped in thin, unleavened dough. Simple to make ahead of time and easier to cook (just boil them)
> 
> Here's my tumblr if you wanna be friends~ [japic-fanfick](http://japic-fanfick.tumblr.com/)


	3. Go Left

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Planning ahead is a valuable skill to learn kids.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi again! ^v^
> 
> Not much to say this time around besides a sincere apology if I butcher up the Russian ^^' (let me know if I did and I'll change it!) 
> 
> Here's the chapter, I hope you like it! =D  
> (My beta did lmao)
> 
> \---------------------------------
> 
> Beta: The Local Dumpster Cryptid

“Ah crap!”

The swear can barely be heard through the crisp early morning in the outskirts of St. Petersburg. A thick blanket of snow claims the land in a declaration of hibernation for the season. Occasional winds coming from the east threaten sleeping trees to rid their burden piled upon them as little creatures hide in their bark for warmth. It is dark and silent; so much so that even the sun does not dare to reveal itself to the countryside at this hour.

A secluded building resides in the depths of this rural area. The rather large, worn building is retained within black iron gates that wrap around its perimeter as if to assert its separation to the rest of the world. The structure itself is mostly made of brick with some evidence of concrete for the front steps and walkway. The shabby place is labeled right above the front door, cleverly named the “People’s Orphanage.” 

Two figures carefully trudge down the outside staircase with only a little candle for light in this gloomy morn. The first figure pauses to stuff his chin-length blond hair into his improperly fitted dark gray cap whilst the second does her best to carefully descend the icy steps with a sizable sack in her grasp.

“Be careful, Anya. We don’t need you falling and screaming to wake everyone up,” whispers the blond as he shuffles ahead of her ― just in case she really did fall.

“Ha-ha, very funny,” she quips back. “Take your bag and give me the candle. I shouldn’t have to carry your junk, Yana.”

The boy hums in affirmation and the two switch items. It takes more time than usual for the pair to reach the walkway safely, with Yana holding his pouch and keeping a grip on Anya’s hand. Once safely down the stairs, he releases the girl and bounces the tied up cloth in his hands. “Seems a little heavier then when I packed it yesterday. What did you put in here, kid?” he interrogates his partner with feigned annoyance.

The girl’s auburn hair dances with the wind as she wraps her coat around herself and hums in equally faux confusion. “Well I just want to make sure you have what you need. Some clothes...some socks...your comb…” she muses. 

“...old Phlegmenkoff’s ice skates.” 

Yana turns to her in astonishment. “You seriously took her knife shoes?!”

“Skates,” she deadpans. “They’re called ice skates, Yana.” 

“They are blades attached to shoes. Therefore, they’re knife shoes.” 

Anya shakes her head in amusement. “And they say I’m the younger one.”

“Yeah, because you’re 12.”

“And you’re only 15,” she argues with a frown. A strained silence passes between the two as the mood suddenly turns morose. “Phlegmenkoff can’t kick you out for another three years, so why do you want to leave so early, Yana?” Anya softly inquires.

Taken aback, the boy bites his lower lip to ponder the question. “I’ve already told you before. I just…” He falters and sighs to himself, “I don’t belong here...I need to go…” 

The little candle’s flame barely lights their path, but it is enough for Yana to spot Anya’s tight frown and glossy eyes within the dark morning. He feels a slight pang of guilt for his friend and reaches out to comfort the girl, “I’m sorry Anya…”

She immediately steps back a pace, away from his outstretched hand, and wipes her eyes with the well-worn sleeves of her jacket. “Let’s hurry up then. The sun will come out to chase you if we’re not quick.” She sniffles and briskly walks toward the locked gate. Yana says nothing and follows her.

At the end of the path, the girl produces a thick metal key. With the limited light allowed to her, she busies herself by turning the iron lock open. After a few moments of struggling with rusted thing, the lock gives and allows for an easy removal of the chains binding the dark iron bars.

“Here we go ― one open gate for an anxious traveler!” Anya declares as she quietly opens one side of the groaning gate just wide enough for Yana to slip through.

“How did you end up getting that key anyways?” the boy inquires. “Phlegmenkoff will go mad looking for it.” The girl winks, hiding one of her brilliantly bright blue eyes, and snickers. “Don’t we all have secrets to keep, Yanotchka?”

The blond is slightly taken aback at the mild retort. Recovering quickly, he smirks with a nod in appreciation to his companion. Without another word or a moment’s hesitation, Yana curls his fists and strides forward through the gate. He stops just outside the metal perimeter and heaves a heavy sigh. 

He has taken the first step.

As he hears the metal door creaking once more though, he quietly shouts, “Wait!” Anya stops her ministrations and looks at the frazzled boy as he digs around for...something. She is about to ask if he had gone mad already when he gasps, “Ah-ha!”

Yana approaches the gate once more with a pine branch thick with needles and hands it to a very confused Anya. “Uhhh…”

“Use this to sweep the snow on the ground of the pathway. That way the old hang won’t see our footprints later.” he explains. 

“Oh...okay.”

Anya lays the branch by her feet to then proceed to close and relock the front gate. As she fiddles with the chains she murmurs, “I remember you telling me once that one of your dreams was to learn how to ice skate. To one day feel as if you were flying over the water...away from here...” Her nose twitches as she snorts. “Well really it was only when I pestered you enough that you told me this. But it kind of stuck with me…” She shakes her head as more wind passes by. “I don’t know what I’m even talking about anymore. Anyways, Phlegmenkoff is _never_ gonna use those skates again so if the world takes pity on you someday, maybe you can finally learn how to how to use them.”

_Click_

Anya reattaches the padlock, effectively separating the pair. 

Yana slowly walks up to the iron bars to capture the girl’s attention once more. With only a meager two inch difference in height, the boy easily looks up into Anya’s eyes with his own forest colored ones and grins. “They’re knife shoes, kid.”

The younger fondly huffs with an eye roll and a genuine smile. “Whatever.”

# ****

It has only been an hour since Yana left the orphanage and the sun is already rising, slowly covering the land with a false promise of warmth.

“Dammit…” The blond grumbles to himself as snow continues to fall all around him. “Anya was right that the sun’ll chase after me.” The teen plops his bag down and stops for a moment to blow warm air into his fingerless gloved hands. He tries to mentally readjust his plan. He had originally hoped to gain a head start of traveling so he could avoid a potential search party, but it seems as though fate has decided otherwise. Right at the beginning of his journey he made a wrong turn that put him in the opposite direction of where he wanted. By the time he realized this mistake and rerouted to the right path, a good amount of time passed along with his growing worry for running into someone from the orphanage soon. There’s also the fact that snow started falling once more. Normally the youth can handle snow since he practically lived with it, but the winds accompanying it today are testing his limitations. He momentarily wonders: if he keeps his face scrunched up behind his scarf for long enough, would it freeze in that position?

He shakes the thought out of his head. “I might need to take cover for now…”

With his teeth chattering, the fair boy looks ahead and notices that the road becomes forked. Swiftly, he slings his bag over his shoulder and continues trekking towards it. Two signs are hammered into the bark of a tree at the parting point, indicating where each path leads. He squints his eyes against the sun’s glare to read the names: “Fisherman’s Village” pointing to the left and “St. Petersburg” pointing to the right.

The boy heaves a sigh of relief. “Oh thank God, I should be almost to Saint Petersburg then.” Upon closer inspection of the sign though, Yana’s eyes widen to comical proportions and jaw goes slack at the unexpected remaining distance that separates him from the city.

“Are you serious?!” Soft green eyes plead to the heavens. “That’s at least a day’s journey…I think?!” Yana growls and internally berates himself for not really traveling much before. He should have thought of this ahead of time ― perhaps gone on a few trips with Phlegmenkoff’s unbearable thing she calls a son to the city for supplies. He might have been punished for the bruise marks he’d leave on the man, but at least he could’ve known how long it would take to get there.

At a loss of what to do, the young man mumbles incoherent phrases that include _stupid_ and _idiot_ while rhythmically knocking his forehead against the tree bark. This doesn’t do anything for him besides blossoming a headache, but it expels his negative energy so he can try to think clearly.

“There’s no way that I can get to the city today and I’ll freeze out here if I don’t have a place to stay…”

The boy gradually looks to the other sign for Fisherman’s Village and hums in thought. “I think this might be the village where that fish factory is located...it doesn’t look too far…”

Making up his mind, Yana hauls his belongings and travels down the left path.

# ****

The sleepy village is slowly waking to the new day. Shopkeepers polish their wares to a blinding shine while bakers readily open their shops for anticipated customers. Yana’s stomach angrily growls as he makes his way through the intoxicating scent of fresh bread in the street; some drool even slips through his chapped lips in longing for a meal. Nevertheless, the famished boy continues walking along with a crowd of factory workers, all of whom sluggishly shuffle to the only metal warehouse in the vicinity. 

Upon arriving at the factory, the heavy smell of the imported creatures from the Baltic Sea immediately overcomes his stomach’s protest for food and quickly morphs it into a need to vomit. The boy does his best to keep in control with steady and even breaths until the queasiness goes away. Letting the episode subside, the boy eagerly looks around the place, eventually spotting someone that looks to be of higher position. Tightly gripping his bag, he approaches said man and actively reminds himself to be friendly.

“Excuse me, ser¹,” Yana unintentionally clips. 

The (much larger) man turns around. His prominent dark mustache is so distracting to Yana that he almost misses the man's bushy brows furrowing inward at the tone. “Can I help you devushka²?”

The small boy bites the inside of his cheek to stop an immediate, unprofessional, retort. As pleasantly as he could manage, he replies: “I’m a guy.” The man’s eyebrows rise in surprise as Yana continues. “I’m also a traveler and was hoping for some work while I stayed in town,” he explains as politely as he can. 

The man’s eyebrows furrow once more as he takes in the young boy’s appearance. “You barely look old enough to leave the playground, mal’chik³, why do you talk of work? I need men to handle very heavy crates and you certainly look too fragile for the task.” 

An eye twitch is all that Yana gives away to display his annoyance. He quickly scans the large room and locks on a particular section of the factory. The boy almost gags but keeps himself composed. “I could help sort the fish.” 

The large man looks to where the station is and utters out a hearty laugh. “So you’re telling me you're a boy but you want to do a woman’s work?”

A hot flush rises to the boy’s face. This action is easily misinterpreted by the man as embarrassment when, truly, all the younger one can feel is anger. “You _just said_ that you don’t think I can handle the crates, so I’m willing to do something else. Don’t laugh at me!”

The man immediately frowns as a thought occurs to him. “Y’know, there’s that orphanage not too far from here. Are you from there mal’chik?” The boy grows pale as the man muses, “I don’t recall Phlegmenkoff telling me she was sending one of the older ones here anytime soon.” The man starts to walk towards his office. “Let me see if I have any notes on this matter.”

On impulse, Yana blocks the man’s path and half-shouts, “No! I just said I was a traveler looking for a job.” The slightly shaking boy refuses to acknowledge his pulse ringing in his ears, or that his vision is becoming a bit sharper with adrenaline rushing through his veins. He cannot allow himself to be sent back, lest they’ll keep a tighter leash over him.

The man, pausing, crosses his arms and raises one eyebrow in suspicion. “I’ll be honest, this does not convince me in the least bit, mal’chik.” Yana scrambles to organize his incoherent thoughts in order to retort once more when a figure suddenly crashes against his side. Long, warm arms easily wrap around his smaller frame as he is lifted up into the air. A cheery cry arises from the mysterious being:

“Moy dvoyurodnyy brat⁴!!” 

Yana is stunned silent as the newcomer continues to hug him tight and starts rubbing their face against his own. “Ahhh I was wondering when you would stop by! I thought you would wait for the spring but nope, silly goose had to fly here during the worst of winter~” The figure continues to babble about nonsense as Yana gains his bearings once more. With a quick glance Yana sees that the stranger, a jovial man, is still holding him up in the air. He tries to shove away, but the man notices his struggle and finally puts him down. 

“What the hell?!” Yana sputters. “Give a man a warning won’t you?” 

The stranger pouts. “Aww, why are you being so cruel to me?” he whines as the mustached man observes them in confusion. 

“That’s your cousin there, Viktor?” he asks with disbelief as he points to Yana.

The mysterious man, now identified as Viktor, nods his head enthusiastically and gives a 1000 watt heart-shaped smile. “Yup! Came all the way from Moscow to visit little ol’ me. Isn’t that sweet~?” the taller man gushes as he ruffles Yana’s hair. 

The boy swipes at the hand. “Don’t touch me!”

Viktor retracts his stung hand and sighs. “Oh dear, puberty is such an awful time. Don’t you think so Alyosha?” 

The mustached man, Alyosha, hums noncommittally. He turns to face Viktor. “This boy claimed he’s a traveler and wants to work.”

For a brief moment Viktor looks hesitant, but instantly recovers his pleasant demeanour. “Well, since he has traveled so far, I told him that he should try getting some work around here since the amount I make will not be comfortable for the both of us,” he simply states.

Alyosha hums and replies, “Why didn’t he ask for you then?” 

Yana stares at Viktor; once again his heart pounds and he gives a glare sharp as a knife to the aforementioned man. Was this bastard an idiot to give such a bold statement? They have never met before, that moron! There’s no way he can answer that ― 

“Would you like to claim to be related to me too, Alyosha?” Viktor casually laughs aloud.

―What?

Alyosha scrunches up his nose. “Oh God no, you’re too eccentric to have as family.” Viktor continues to laugh as Yana’s head whips back and forth between the two men. Did he...Did he just insult his employee?

Viktor’s laughter becomes soft as he points out, “Well there’s your answer, comrade.”

The older man grunts in agreement. “You're a good worker though...” he pauses. “Can you vouch that the boy will work just as hard? I don’t make it a habit to hire minors for them to slack off.” 

Viktor grins widely. “Certainly! He’s one of the hardest working people I know. Right, kotyonok⁵?”

Yana, not so secretly, hisses at Victor before answering Alyosha, “Yes, I will work hard.”

The eldest man sighs. “Alright. Viktor, help him go pick out a station and have one of the girls teach him how to sort. Then get back to your own work.” Viktor nods and Alyosha sets his gaze on Yana. “Come see me when the shift is over for your pay.” With that said, the man walks away to inspect another area of the factory.

As soon as Alyosha was far enough away, Viktor gives a loud, exaggerated sigh ― complete with his wrist daintily touching his forehead for effect. “Well that was a close call, kotyonok. For a moment there I thought he wouldn’t believe us!” he chuckles.

Bristling a bit from the unwanted nickname, Yana finally takes a good look at this Viktor guy. He’s definitely tall and appears to have a pretty strong build. (Somehow, though, he can’t fathom that it’s from hauling cargo around all day since his frame seems evenly toned.) His skin is almost porcelain-like with a hint of pink undertone, so Yana kind of understands how others could probably see some resemblance between them. When he observes the man’s hair though…

“What the fuck, you already have gray hair?! How OLD are you??”

Viktor gasps with a hand on his chest. “How dare―! I help you and this is the rudeness I get?” the man huffs. “First of all, a thank you would be much appreciated, kotyonok. Alyosha typically doesn’t like to pay under the table so you got lucky that I happened to be overhearing the conversation.” 

Yana balks. “You were listening to our ―”

“Shush, that’s not important.” Viktor waves his hand in the air.

“Secondly, I prefer to call it silver and, yes, it’s my natural hair color, thank you very much,” he sasses while running his fingers through the bangs of his short hair style. The blond rolls his eyes at the melodramatic gesture. “And thirdly, I’m 27 years young, about to be 28 in a couple weeks~” Viktor ends giddily, his shining blue irises stealing the color of the bright sky. 

The teen groans into his hands. The “old man” did help his sorry ass so he could at least acknowledge that. To save what little pride he has, the blond looks off to the side and soft mutters, “Thanks I guess…”

The taller man leans forward. “Hmm? What was that?” 

“I said thanks.” 

The silver-haired man takes a moment to study the boy before giving a small smile of acceptance. “I’m Viktor. What’s your name, kotyonok?”

The boy shuffles his feet a bit before replying. “It’s Yana, so stop calling me that.”

Viktor’s eyes widen. “Yana? That’s not a name that’ll help people take you seriously as a man, kotyonok.”

“Yeah, yeah I know,” the blond mutters. “It was originally Ivan⁶ but then the other kids kept calling me Yana since I look more girly. So I just kinda kept it,” he ends bluntly with a shrug of his shoulders. There’s a gleam in Viktor’s crystal eyes that Yana misses but the secretive smile doesn’t go unnoticed. “What is it asshole?”

“Nothing, nothing~” the odd man pacifies. Instead, Victor pats his forefinger against his lips in contemplation. “Kotyonok,” he starts and effectively ignores the boy’s beginning protest of the nickname, “which part of town are you staying at the moment?”

Yana straightens his back. He tries to think of one of the places he passed by earlier, but his mind draws a blank ― ultimately leaving him opening and closing his mouth like an undead version of the fish surrounding them. 

Being met with silence from the younger, Viktor decides to make an offer. “After you meet with Alyosha, why don’t you come stay with me for the night? That is, if you don’t already have a place to go.” He shrugs a shoulder and adds a friendly smile.

Yana’s automatic response system tells him that he should just say no, because who the hell does the guy think he is? A stranger asking him to go to his house? It’s an absurd thought, but the boy clamps his lips shut. If he’s being honest with himself, he really doesn’t have another option besides braving the freezing snow. That’s not a friendly option either. Therefore he, instead, asks, “Where do you live?”

The blonde swears he sees Viktor visibly glow. “Just a couple buildings away with a little family of four that rented their room to me. I can guarantee you a nice meal and a warm place to sleep for the night.”

Hearing that a family is there calms the boy significantly. If the guy ends up to be one of those perverts he hears about, there’ll at least be people around to witness him punch the man’s lights out. So it won’t be bad for just a night, right? “If you’re willing to offer, then alright,” the younger grumbles to the ground.

Viktor positively beams at the answer. “Okay! After the meeting come see me at the front entrance of the building.” He firmly nods and continues with a clap of his hands, “Now that’s settled, let’s get you over to the fish sorting area~”

“Joy…”

# ****

To say that Yana’s done with the day is a complete understatement.

Eleven hours of close proximity to the stench from pure dead fish makes his head spin and nose burn in agony. The intimate feel of their slimy scaled bodies against his sensitive fingers send shivers down his spine. The way dead eyes look upon him as if to say _better not throw me in with those flounder fish land-walker,_ mocking him for his learning curve of telling apart which fish is what. The female workers alongside his station occasionally send him pitying looks and help correct his mistake of throwing the perch in with the flounder again.

Luckily the women take pity on his pathetic performance to later report his completion of work to their boss with a certain level of approval. After hearing that Viktor’s endorsement of the child has been proven correct, Alyosha gives Yana his promised pay for the day and promptly bids the boy good night.

As the teen drags himself from the office towards the entrance of the factory, he lifts his gaze and speculates if he made a mistake with taking Viktor’s offer. The said man waits for him in a long brown trench coat by the door with a wide heart-shaped smile and a hand waving furiously in the air to catch his attention, “Over here kotyonok~”

Blatantly ignoring the man, Yana looks around to see that the other workers don’t bat an eye to the taller man’s antics. So this must be normal. Great. The blond heaves a heavy sigh ― ultimately concluding that he’s far too tired and hungry to lament his decision making ability any further. 

“I see you starik⁷, so stop making a ruckus,” the boy answers with misdirected irritation.

The smile instantly falls to produce a rather comical frown on the tall man. “Don’t call me that. I told you that this is my natural hair!”

“And I told you to stop calling me that stupid nickname,” the blond argues. “Stop calling me that and I’ll stop calling you starik.”

Viktor heaves out a sigh. “But the difference is that you actually look and act like a little kotyonok, so how can I help myself?” Almost as if a switch had been activated, the silver-haired man starts musing. “Well, actually, I prefer sobaki⁸ if I were to be honest. So fluffy, lovable, and loyal! Oh, what would I give to have one again!” The man gushes while the teen holds back a retching noise. “But they are so hard to take care of out here in the countryside. There’s very little space for them to run without freezing their paws and a limited food supply since they can’t eat just anything.”

It doesn’t take a great detective to realize that Viktor might have had very real world, first hand experience in this scenario. However, Yana ignores it for now because his stomach is protesting once again.

“Yeah, well, I like koty⁹ better anyways. Much cleaner,” the blond states. “Back on topic, you seem to say whatever is on your mind so I’ll call you a starik until you stop calling me kotyonok.”

For the briefest of moments, it seems as though Yana finally gotten through to the older man when he closes his eyes and hums. 

“Ah well,” Viktor smiles. “I guess I’ll have to get used to it then.” He gives a half-hearted shrug and turns towards the door. “Let’s get going kotyonok~”

Yana couldn’t hold back his scream.

# ****

The little house isn’t anything much in terms of material fanciness or quality. In fact, it is the definition of bare necessity with a little luxury of electricity to light the small residence. However, once inside, the little family of four makes the environment much warmer than out in the snow. 

The two children ask many questions to the new mysterious person before their mother scolds them to not bother their guest. Once dinner is served, there is light conversation between all the adults and Yana finds himself at times having conflicted feelings between contentment and utter alienation. He speaks up when addressed but feels as though he is mostly an onlooker ― observing a natural family dynamic that he has no part in, never had a part in, and probably will never have in the future.

Yana, discreetly but actively, shakes the thought from his mind and unconsciously clutches the hidden object around his neck. He will. He definitely will. He has too…

Jolted from his thoughts, the lady of the house ― Dinara if he remembers correctly ― courteously retrieves his empty plate with a pleasant smile.

“I hope the meal was to your liking.”

“Oh. Yes it was. Thank you ma’am.” Yana reaches for his bag of newly obtained rubles and inquires, “How much do I owe for the food?” 

The bemused woman pauses to register Yana’s offer. “Oh don’t worry about that kotyonok.” 

Oh God, she’s using that nickname too? Yana is going to kill Viktor. 

“Viktor snuck by earlier today and told me about your stay for the night. He already paid for your half so just wash yourself up and head to bed. It looks like you’ve had a long day, so I hope you sleep well tonight.”

Yana will not kill Viktor.

Yet.

Following Dinara’s advice, the teen washes himself of the slime and grime stuck onto his skin from the hard day of labor. Only when he attempts to recollect his clothes does he realize that he had smelled absolutely atrocious all throughout dinner and whines with belated embarrassment. He retrieves his nightwear from his sack to change into and does a rough washing of the day’s clothes so they’ll hopefully be dry (and less revolting) in the morning. Afterwards, the freshened boy heads directly to the room pointed out earlier to be Viktor’s. 

As expected the room itself is small, but fortunately it’s not terribly cramped. A standard single wooden bed with a worn mattress and sheets are against the right wall under a window with the curtains shut. A simple wooden nightstand is stationed next to the head of the bed while an old dresser lies against the left wall. Very spartan, but not entirely uncomfortable.

Viktor himself is not in the room so Yana walks in and hides his sack under the bed. Once standing, the teen’s emerald eyes greedily takes in the bed. Looking around and listening for any footsteps, he allows himself to test out the mattress with a little seated bounce and sighs in contentment. Not a second later does Viktor come parading into the room and Yana is instantly off the bed once more.

“Kotyonok! I hope you’re feeling more comfortable after the bath, yes?”

Yana glares at the cheery man. A cheeky retort is at the ready until the blond spots the great pile of blankets in Viktor’s grasp. Looking back onto the bed and confirming that, yes, there were sheets on it, the teen instead replies, “Why do you need so many blankets?”

The taller man looks to the bundle as if he didn’t even noticed it was there. “Oh! These? Well a wooden floor isn’t the most comfortable thing to sleep on so some extra blankets and a pillow will help.”

The teen nods in understanding. Back in the orphanage all they had were some thin straw mattresses to combat the harshness of the concrete floor and tattered rags to fight the night cold. Surely wooden floors in a decent home are more forgiving than that, but he cannot argue about extra cushioning. Yana is about to take the sheets when Viktor throws the pile on the floor and awkwardly wiggles around the mass himself.

“What the actual fuck are you doing?” the teen blurts out, absolutely baffled at the sight. 

“Language! There are children here,” the silver-haired man reprimands.

Yana looks up to ceiling and gestures to the squirming man as if to ask destiny if this is really all they could give him. With no obvious answer in sight, he sighs. “Get on your bed, starik. I’ll take the floor.”

“No, no. You’re the growing kid. You can’t get big and tall if your back gets messed up, kotyonok. So take the bed,” the man finalizes his statement by beating the extra pillow. “Besides, tomorrow’s Sunday. We don’t have work so we can sleep in a bit and beat the churchgoers to the fresh pastries in the morning~”

As the man continues to get comfortable on the floor, Yana seriously contemplates his situation at hand: 

Not even a full day ago he was penniless, freezing, and starving. Now he has a job in this little village ― thanks to Viktor. He also now has a full stomach and even a bed for the night ― also thanks to Viktor. No doubt that this man is still a stranger to the boy, but he has shown more kindness to him than anyone else he can remember in that incomplete memory of his. Not even Anya would give up a bed to him if the opportunity arose, especially if it was rightfully hers. The teen weighs his options and allows himself to speak before reconsidering.

“I don’t take up much space so we could share the bed.”

Viktor stops his fiddling and looks up in shock before the boy tacks on, “Only because I don’t want to be blamed for your bad back in the morning, starik. And don’t try any funny business, I can and will beat you up! So hurry up and get in, I’m tired.”

Yana leaves no room for argument as he crawls onto the side of the bed nearest the window, taking the pillow with him, and pulls the sheets up to his chin. He hears nothing from the silver-haired man for several minutes. He is about to drift off when he feels the bed dip in extra weight on the other side and a quick shuffling of blankets to encompass the new occupant. 

Feeling extra heat radiating onto his back, Yana forces himself to stay awake until he hears a steady rhythmic breathing pattern from the other man. The teen pries his lids open and takes notice that the lights are now off. Subtly, the blond shifts to look over his shoulder at the slumbering man’s back, ensuring that he is indeed asleep.

With this verification, Yana heaves a long, tiring yawn and curls up once more to welcome sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) ser ― a gender neutral term for “sir”  
> (2) Devushka (Девушка) ― “girl” in Russian  
> (3) Mal’chik (Мальчик) ― “boy” in Russian  
> (4) Moy dvoyurodnyy brat (Мой двоюродный брат) ― apparently means “my (male) cousin” in Russian lol  
> (5) Kotyonok (котенок) ― an endearment term for “kitten” in Russian  
> (6) Fun fact: the name “Yana” is the female version of “Ivan”  
> (7) Starik (старик) ― “old man” in Russian  
> (8) Sobaki (Собаки) ― “dogs” in Russian  
> (9) Koty (Коты) ― “cats” in Russian
> 
> EDIT: I've changed Victor's name spelling to Viktor. Since this fic's setting is primarily in 1920s Russia and our silver-haired man has lived there since birth, it'll be culturally appropriate, for both place and time period, to spell his name with a "k"
> 
> I am fully aware that canonically it's spelled "Victor"  
> I believe it's because this is a modern age where foreign ways to spell names are common and acknowledged. 
> 
> I just want to do this fic justice ;v;


	4. Go Right

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes plans don't happen the way you'd expect them to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovely readers~
> 
> 'Tis very late for me and I don't have much to say, so please enjoy ;v;
> 
> \---------------------------------
> 
> Beta: The Local Dumpster Cryptid
> 
> **TW: Abandonment**

_Everything is always so damn obscure in here._

_After years of visiting, at least I know that this is a room...probably. The walls and ceiling are blindingly white, which doesn’t help the distorted nature of the place. A sturdy russet (wooden?) floor keeps me grounded for the times I’m allowed here. A quick look to the left reveals a mirrored wall that reflects a murky version of myself with a hair cut. I’d appreciate it if my hair was kept long, thanks._

_Suddenly a piano’s[sound](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2T9tQ1WCOXo) slowly emerges through this hazy atmosphere. It’s a tune I don’t recognize usually playing here but I can’t quite say that I hate it. It’s almost uplifting. I wonder if it has a name?_

_As if on cue, four familiar figures appear across the room, dancing in time with the quickening melody. I can vaguely perceive the thin dresses twirling about them as they spin gracefully on, what I can only assume, their toes. I don’t even try to examine their faces anymore because the harder I look around this place, the muddier it becomes. Yet I do take note of a new detail: three of the dancers have a rich chocolate color to them whereas only one is practically crimson. It’s unusual to distinguish something so certainly in this place but I pay it no mind._

_I can feel the quickly approaching crescendo of the music and my feet itch to dance along with it. Swiftly, I begin with a second arabesque, my signature starting pose, to join the others. As soon as I move however, the melody abruptly stops and the figures stare at me hauntingly._

_Well...this has never happened before._

_I stare back at my blurry comrades, not quite sure what to do now while holding my pose. There never was a problem before when I danced alongside them, so why do they stop now? A noise erupts from the crimson tinged figure, as if trying to yell at me. I am bewildered at this attempt of communication, but I lower my limbs in hopes to appease my distorted companions. I lower my leg first, and then my arms follow suit. Once standing in attention however, all four figures quickly fly towards me and everything goes black._

# ****

Yana’s nose twitches as he instantly wakes into the bright morning. The sun’s shining rays come through the uncurtained window, making the teen instantly regret ever opening his eyes. Shutting them against the blinding force, he turns over his body’s position to face away from the source of his irritation ― which brings forth a new inquiry of why he can’t move his arms freely. The blond also semi-focuses on the fact that there’s a drastic inconsistency between the snow he knows to be outside and how uncomfortably warm his body is. A low groan escapes him at the unfamiliarity of the situation as he eventually lifts his head to squint at his surroundings.

The room is dark, save for the light coming through the window. The dresser’s top drawer is opened a fraction with a sack hanging off the corner of its mouth. The boy momentarily ponders about the unnaturally comfortable ground he’s lying on but doesn’t continue the train of thought. He feels his muscles tense with a strange amount of soreness he can’t recall obtaining. With a puff of air he lays his head once more in hopes to fall asleep again and allow the ache to disappear. However, his body reminds him that it’s currently too hot to attempt such a feat. As well as slightly immobile.

“Ugh…” 

Lifting his head again, the teen looks down his person to see what was restricting his movements. 

Blankets. Literally a sea of blankets are tucked around the teen, cradling him into a cocoon type structure that only allows him to wiggle about. That ― and he’s on a bed.

“What the hell…?” 

“Ah, kotyonok¹, you’re finally awake!”

Automatically, the boy directs his attention to the voice. Viktor walks into the room, wearing a long tan coat with flecks of snow clinging to his shoulders. Yana’s sleepy mind slowly wakes as he observes the wet footprints left behind by the taller man’s damp boots. The events from the day before flash through his mind: the orphanage, Fisherman’s Village, the factory, starik², and the bed. With some force, the boy bursts out of his warm encasement to address the silver-haired man.

“Of course I am,” he openly yawns. “I was practically dying of heat! Why are there so many blankets on me?”

Viktor pouts. “Well when I woke up it had gotten pretty cold and I didn’t want you getting sick,” he beams a heart-shaped smile, “so I made sure to wrap you up nicely to keep you warm~!”

“And you couldn’t just wake me up?” the blond deadpans.

“Net³. You worked very hard yesterday and need the extra sleep.” Viktor states as he places his coat over the dresser. “Besides, the bakery had unexpected lines today from all the church-skippers in the village. I’m glad you couldn’t come, it was a real battle to get the last pair of vatrushka⁴~” he hesitantly laughs as if re-encountering the battles once more in his mind.

The boy instantly perks at the mentioned pastry as he slides off the bed. “What topping?”

The older hums. “One is regular cheese and the other is some sort of jam. I didn’t really bother asking what kind since _someone_ kept smacking me with her cane the entire time,” he grumbles a name but Yana doesn’t catch it. “It’s still warm, so hurry and get dressed so we can eat it. I’ll make us some tea while you’re at it.” Viktor walks out of the room towards the kitchen with a brown bag in tow.

Without skipping a beat, the blond rushes to the washroom to retrieve his clothes. They are still somewhat damp, but at least the smell wasn’t as potent as yesterday. Therefore, Yana shrugs a shoulder and puts them on carelessly. Once back into the room, the teen looks under the bed to retrieve his bag to put away his nightwear. Then his body becomes rigid.

It wasn’t there.

The teen is in the kitchen at an instant. 

Viktor is humming while waiting for the water to boil when an angry cat pounces on him. Surprised by the sudden onslaught, Viktor fumbles to grab hold of one of the counters (fortunately it wasn’t the activated burner) as he hits the floor with a loud thud. “Der’mo⁵!”

“Where’d you take it?!”

“Huh?! Stop pulling my shirt, kotyonok!” The older man pries the younger’s hands off of his collar and holds them in the air against the teen’s strength. “What are you talking about? I didn’t take anything!”

“Yeah right! Where’s my stuff, starik!” The boy pushes his upper body forward, attempting to pin the taller’s arms down for further interrogation. 

“Manners!” Viktor hisses as he pushes the boy off of him. “That’s no way of asking for your things, Yana. We could have injured ourselves or even worse, be burned!” The silver-haired man gestures wildly to the now simmering kettle of water. 

“I don’t care!” the boy scoffs. “Where’s my stuff?!”

The man heaves a heavy sigh as he looks to the frazzled teen. The blond’s shirt looks to be put on haphazardly with a thin golden chain thrown over his shoulder and he’s still only wearing socks. Although Viktor’s sensitive nose catches the familiar scent, he also visibly notices the familiar clothing the boy wore just the day before. After the quick inspection, the man starts to sit up but feels a spasm of pain crawling up his back and immediately sits his bum on the floor again. He realizes with another groan that a bruise is definitely going to form there. “What stuff are you talking about?”

The blond is about to blow another fuse when Viktor continues, “Are you talking about the sack that was under the bed?” Yana glares at the man. “I’m sorry, kotyonok, but I had to move it. The mattress dips a lot more than you think and I didn’t want to crush your things.” 

The man stands back up, more carefully this time, and heads back to the room. The teen chases after him to see Viktor pointing to his sack, hanging off the corner of the top drawer of the dresser. Yana cannot help but gain a feeling of deja vu…

The boy flushes with embarrassment. “I...uhh…”

Viktor’s face remains passive as he leisurely taps his foot on the wooden floor.

“Umm…” The boy grabs the bag and looks inside it to make sure everything is there. After confirming that everything is accounted for, he gradually looks to the patiently waiting man, “Sorry…”

“For…?” Viktor raises a brow.

“For…” the teen clears his throat. “For jumping on you...and blaming you…even though you did touch it without my permission.”

“What was that?”

“Nothing,” the teen grumbles to the wall, a flush dusting his face with embarrassment.

The taller man keeps silent for a moment longer and exhales a breath. “I understand why you became worried, kotyonok. It’s not easy to trust a stranger. But―” he pats his sore back (definitely a bruise), “you can’t just go physically attack a person without talking first.”

Yana distinctly thinks of their meeting yesterday and wonders if the pot is calling the kettle black.

“Not my fault you can’t handle a little rough-housing.”

Exasperated, Viktor gives up on the conversation for the time being. “All is forgiven. Next time just ask first, da⁶?”

“Da…”

“Now that we’re settled…” The elder man not-so-subtly leans forward to try and look into the other’s bag. “What do you have in there that’s so heavy, kotyonok? I swear it felt like…” he trails off.

Yana’s gut begins to churn. Ice skating is not exactly a “manly” sport and it might diminish the man’s generosity of harboring a weird guy like himself. Even the fact that a double standard of not knowing how to skate might be met with some animosity since, according to Phlegmenkoff, everyone already knows how to by the age of five.

Then again, Viktor seems to have peculiar quirks of his own so it wouldn’t be so bad to just show him.

Carefully the teen searches for the laces of the boots, lifts them out of the bag, and presents the skates to Viktor with a gesture that sarcastically says _ta-da._

Aquamarine eyes shine with uncontained delight at the worn ice skates. “You can ice skate, kotyonok?” he gasps with some wonderment.

The boy bites his lower lip and looks away from the man as he clips, “No. Never had the chance to learn.”

A loud gasp is all Yana hears before a pair of hands grab onto his shoulders, making him face the man in front of him.

“Let me teach you!” Viktor all but yells. “There’s a lake near here that has a thick layer of ice during this time of winter that I like to practice on myself. It’ll be fun~!”

Viktor continues musing but the teen is too bewildered to focus. He has become far too friendly with the stranger and wonders why the man even bothers helping his problematic ass. The world isn’t very kind; he knows this well. People can be there one minute, either find you useful or not, and leave the very next if you’re not up to standard. That’s how Yana’s world works ― plain and simple. But if that is true out here too, why does Viktor seem to want him around when so far he has only inconvenienced the man? Even so far as attacked him!

Yana cannot make any sense of it. Ever since stepping foot into the orphanage, the boy learned to keep himself guarded; to always second guess everyone’s intentions and trust no one. Yet, it only has been a day since he even met the man. One, single solitary day. Why does he feel...safe?

_If the world takes pity on you someday, maybe you can finally learn how to how to use them._

Is that what Viktor’s doing? Taking pity on a miserable kid who, literally, just stepped out into the world that seems just so vast?

Pity is such a demeaning word. One often used as a derogation, yet Yana cannot help shifting his point of view of the act. If anything, it has somewhat empowered him. Before, he had _nothing_ ― still would have nothing if pity didn’t enable him to finally gain some tools needed to survive out here. He’s not mad at pity. In fact, he feels very grateful for the unexpected help. However, Yana feels a burning question forming: Viktor could’ve easily ignored him, so why didn’t he?

In order to find out, the teen is going to have to find a way to ask the man and this will probably be the golden opportunity to do so while learning how to fly on water. “Please teach me!”

The response is accepted with the man’s, now signature, heart smile and gleaming eyes. “Alright! Let’s head out after breakfast~”

# ****

The duo travels through the dense woods on ankle-deep snow paths to eventually meet with a lake. Gleaming in the winter sun, the frozen body is serene and quiet with little to no other life around besides the strange pair walking towards it.

Viktor and Yana both unceremoniously plop onto a thick, elevated tree root near the frozen body to change their footwear. The elder teaches the younger the right way of tying the laces on the skates ― ensuring that the ankles are held firmly in place ― when he frowns in slight confusion.

“These boots are a little big for you, kotyonok. Be extra careful or you could twist your ankle.”

Looking down to his skates, the boy takes in the borderline hilarity of the large boots in proportion to his growing feet. With a noncommittal shrug, he promptly ignores the imperfect fit for the feeling of excitement steadily growing within him as he wiggles the skates in the air. Viktor huffs a short laugh at the silly sight and proceeds to lace up his own worn leather skates. 

Once laced up, the man carefully leads the teen towards the bank of the lake and steps onto the glassy surface himself. The cold wind kisses his cheeks as he drifts a few steps forward but forgoes the feeling in lieu of noticing how empty is hand is. Viktor resigns that his forgetful nature is going to get him in trouble someday. With a graceful turn and the scraping sound of the metal digging into the ice, Viktor looks back to the edge of the lake to see what was the matter.

“Awwww, kotyonok is now a rebenok olen’ ⁷~” he coos while Yana does his best to keep his shaking legs at bay to step onto the lake as well.

“Shut up, starik! I’m trying to figure out how the knife shoes work...” He carefully takes his daring first step.

“Knife shoes…?”

_THUD_

Within the blink of an eye, the teen finds himself on his back on the frozen ground, glaring directly at the sun as if it was its fault he fell. Viktor tips his head back with open laughter at the boy’s scowl and glides over to the dramatic beginner. “What a fantastical fall! Hopefully you didn’t twist anything.”

The blond grunts in affirmation and allows the silver-haired man to pull him upright. 

“How about we learn how to walk, da?” The elder asks while keeping a firm grasp on the younger’s hands as he leads them further into the lake.

# ****

The two skated until the sky began to change from its clear blue into a medley of pinks and purples, matching the boy’s bruises decorating his skin. With empty bellies and hearts full of mirth, the fumbling pair made their way back to the house in hopes that a meal will be ready by then.

After a light scolding from Dinara about the importance of going to church and receiving cold bathing water as punishment, they eat dinner in content silence and survive cleaning themselves with the chilly water.

Viktor fluffs his pillows when Yana sprints into the room and dives directly onto the mattress and under the sheets. “Kotyonok?”

“Is going to church seriously necessary in this village? Cold water this time of year is torture!”

Viktor cannot help but laugh at the boy’s petulant attitude. “Oh? And where you come from it’s not?” he teases the younger.

“What use is God to an abandoned orphan?” The boy sits cross legged with two layers of blankets wrapped around his shoulders.

Viktor’s eyes slightly widen in sudden understanding. “Ah, so you _are_ from the orphanage in the south.”

Yana keeps quiet, only to sigh a moment later. “Yeah. It shouldn’t be surprising ― anyone with eyes can see I’ve never been on my own before. You knew, didn’t you?”

The elder nodded his head in affirmation but said nothing else. Yana leans his back against the wall near the window, a contemplative expression displayed on his face. “You did.”

Another pause.

“I’m an annoying brat that doesn’t know how to do anything. Why help me if you knew that?”

Sky blue eyes open a little wider at the bold question. Lifting a finger to touch his lips, Viktor redirects his sight towards the window. The snow is light this evening ― very silent. The only sound heard is the wind wisping a dusting of snowflakes around in the street with some stragglers sticking to the window’s frame. It’s a beautiful sight. “I learned the hard way.”

Yana raises his head. “What?”

Viktor turns his gaze back to the blond. “My…” he hesitates. “Let’s just say that my family didn’t want me anymore so I had no one to turn to.”

Yana’s eyes widen substantially at the admission.

“But,” he continues, “I also had nowhere to go. I was already considered an adult so no orphanage would take me in.” 

The teen quickly becomes confused. As far as he’s heard, families train their sons for a specific trade or business. Why would Viktor need assistance at that point in life? He should have been fully capable to do something and would have been able to go into a profession with ease if the need called for it. It seems as though the more answers he gets, Yana can only come up with more questions. Viktor is a mysterious man.

The man in question takes in a deep breath, “I won’t get into more detail than that, but I just want you to know Yana, that I know what’s it like to be on your own and clueless in a world that is not kind. So…”

Viktor straightens himself and faces the young man with determination. “I want to help you. I may not know why you decided to leave the warmth and shelter an orphanage can provide. Nor why you chose to go to a village in the middle of nowhere to be your new home. However, for as long as I can, I’d like to help a fellow lost person in hopes that you’ll never have to go through many of the troubles I did.”

Peering his emerald gaze into the older man’s eyes, the boy sees nothing but raw honesty and deep empathy stare back at him. The boy hastily removes his gaze from Viktor and looks to the sheets ruffled about him. A little frozen with shock and confusion, the blond does his best to process what has been said.

A few beats of silence pass. Viktor leaves the blond alone to his thoughts as he continues to fluff the pillows once more. Neither of them speak as the silver-haired man takes his time to look around the room for something to do. He is about to leave to make hot water to drink when the boy mumbles, “I left…”

The older man pauses by the door at the sound. The teen keeps quiet and it’s only when Viktor calmly makes his way to gently sit at the edge of the bed that the younger continues.

“I...I don’t remember anything before I became an orphan.” As the boys looks up, surprise is evident on Viktor’s face but he keeps listening.

“No memory whatsoever of who I am. It was as if I woke up from the darkness one day to be a no-name child begging for scraps of food in the streets of Saint Petersburg. I had no coat or shoes, and barely got by with wooden crates as shelter. After a few weeks though, some officials decided I was a nuisance when I ultimately tried to steal from one of the carts in the market. So they knocked me out and sent me to the orphanage.”

Viktor’s eyebrows shoot up. “Why did they knock you out to send you there?”

Yana’s face flushes with embarrassment. “I might’ve...kicked an officer in the face…”

A dramatic sigh followed by laughter flows from the elder man. “It seems as though you haven’t changed much kotyonok.”

“Shut up starik,” the younger grumbles. “The point is that I don’t know who I am. For years I’ve been plagued with the idea of family and watching other kids get adopted while I’m left behind.”

Viktor gives the teen a sorrowful look. “I’m sorry koty―”

“I know I have a family though.”

The taller man makes a puzzled noise and stares at the boy. “Huh?”

“However, I’m not foolish enough to think someone is gonna come here to get me since they, y’know, left me in the first place.” The boy moves to sit up above the blankets and faces Viktor in a cross-legged position.

“For seven years I’ve been dawdling around, hoping ― even _praying_ to regain at least some of my lost memories. To have some sort of semblance as to who I am…” he pauses to take out a delicate necklace from under his shirt.

“This though…” he presents the pendant to Viktor to inspect, “this is at least a clue of where I need to go. Just a little hope I can grasp onto so I just...can’t linger at the orphanage anymore. I…”

The boy gulps as he takes the pendant back. “I need to find a way to Paris. And hopefully...maybe...find my family,” he ends lamely and tucks the necklace back under his shirt.

Both men are silent. The sound of Yana’s breathing becomes louder and faster as time ticks on. Not long afterwards though, Viktor pipes up. “Paris...Do you think they are really there?”

That’s the dreaded question Yana faces everyday. He knows it’s not something he can take lightly. He doesn’t even know if the necklace truly belongs to him or not. Scrunching up his brows, the teen replies, “I have to try. I have no definitive proof that I’ll find them there but,” He clenches the sheets tightly in his grip, “I have to try.” As soon as the statement is out, Yana exhales the tension from his hands and face. There is little more he can do besides going blindly after the only clue he has on his person. He only hopes that Viktor doesn’t think him childish or stupid for trying to do so.

A severe contemplative looks befalls on Viktor. He looks around the room, from the dresser, to the nightstand, the bed, and out the window before concentrating his attention on Yana again. The younger begins to squirm under the older’s intense gaze but crystal eyes alight with a decision made. He moves to sit in a similar cross-legged way as Yana and claps his knees once. “We can go.”

“Go…?” The young man scrunches his brows again. “Go where?”

“To Paris!” The taller man’s arms swing about over his head in excitement. “I bet you that the weather over there is much nicer than here. Oh! Isn’t it also considered the fashion capital?? We can get ourselves some new clothes while we’re there~! And the food must be divine~ Ah~ and the music can be so soothing. And ―!”

“Wait, wait, hold on a second!” the boy shakes his hands in front of Viktor to get the man to stop rambling.

“Ooo, I know! We can leave tomorrow! Of course we’d have to tell Dinara and Alyosha in the morning about our leave but it shouldn’t be a problem~” The man continues to babble about different plans while standing up and collecting his belongings.

“VIKTOR!”

The silver-haired man stops in the middle of putting some clothes into a suitcase. “Huh? What’s wrong kotyonok?” he asks innocently.

Yana heaves a great sigh. “What on earth are you planning on doing _now?”_

“I told you,” Viktor turns around and takes a tailor seat⁸. “We’ll go to Paris. You want to see if your family is there, da?” He cocks his head to the side as if _he_ is the one confused.

The teen gasps. “When I said that, I meant it to be my own path to follow, satrik! I don’t want to drag anyone with me. It’s too much a chance to take for someone as established as you.”

Viktor’s eyes became fractionally darker. “Established, huh? I guess it must look that way.” Yana continues to look at him but says nothing else.

“Y’know kotyonok, life is way too short to be doing the same thing day in and day out. So it’s nice to have an adventure here or there, don’t you agree?” The man gives the younger a huge grin to emphasize his point. The teen just snorts.

“Also, I just said that I’d like to help a fellow lost person so what kind of man would I be to go back on my word,” he winks with his hands on his hips.

“But…” Yana argues, “it’s going to cost a lot to even just travel there. Along with food and shelter expenses, it’s not a trip someone can just uproot and go on! I was planning on saving some money while working here so there’s no need to do anything yet…”

“Worry not kotyonok! I have plenty of savings that I think will help cover costs~” he assures with placating hands and a heart smile. “And if we run out, we can probably work as farm hands in-between the trip! It’ll be fun~!”

Yana thinks over the offer before asking, “What are you expecting as a return for doing this?” Viktor blinks owlishly as the younger continues. “Nothing is ever this easy or free to give in this world, so spill. What do you want in return?”

“Umm…” the elder blushes while looking to the floor boards. He taps his two index fingers together. “I’ve never really thought about that... but...maybe...in turn you’ll be my friend…?”

Yana...did not expect that answer. Looking at Viktor on the floor, the boy did not know _what_ to say to that. There’s still many things he doesn’t know about the man, and at this point he doesn’t think he ever will. Yet, the man continues to be kind and is trying to help make the dream of an unwanted kid come true. The blond internally sighs. If the man is willing to help with the financial burden of the trip, what reason does Yana have to say no?

“Acquaintances. Let’s start with dependable acquaintances.”

Viktor’s smile lights up the room. “Okay!”

“Let’s get to sleep now, da? If we’re heading to Paris in the morning, we’ll need all the rest we can get.”

“Of course~!”

When the two finally get to bed, Yana cannot help but stay awake for a bit longer. The excitement of finally going to Paris thrums through his veins and he cannot wait to go on the journey. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the piano music again if you wanna listen: [Music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2T9tQ1WCOXo) (abruptly stops at 0:52)
> 
> Note: Dinara and her husband went to church with the kids so they weren’t there for the kitty attack lol
> 
> 1) Kotyonok (котенок) ― an endearment meaning “kitten” in Russian  
> 2) Starik (старик) ― “old man” in Russian  
> 3) Net (Нет) ― “no” in Russian  
> 4) Vatrushka ― an archaic slavic pastry; a round bun made from leavened, short or unleavened dough and topped with either cottage cheese (with sugar), jam, condensed milk or fruit puree  
> 5) Der’mo (Дерьмо) ― “shit” in Russian lol  
> 6) Da (Да) ― “yes” in Russian   
> 7) Rebenok olen’ (ребенок олень) ― “baby deer” in Russian  
> 8) Tailor seat ― when a person sits cross-legged on the floor

**Author's Note:**

> Here's my tumblr: [japic-fanfick](http://japic-fanfick.tumblr.com/)  
> Let's be friends! (\\(^_^)/)


End file.
